


Singularity

by AngGriffen



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Choking, Ghosts, Infidelity, M/M, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhappy Ending, background Ben Broussard/Brenda Broussard, sslyricwheel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-20
Updated: 2006-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-30 15:15:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngGriffen/pseuds/AngGriffen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Attitude around the clubhouse is, you get your head on straight or you can go home. Broussard thinks back to the night before, waking up blind in the middle of the night, and then when his alarm went off hours later shivering with goose pimples in the middle of roasting Great Lakes dog days. He knows his head's on crooked --if at all--but damned if he's ready to go home, so he pretends, slinging an arm around Garko, this walking pink slip-in-waiting, and tries not to think about the inky black knot he feels tightening around his spine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Singularity

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for the sslyricwheel challenge "Darkness." It is possible I took the prompt a bit literally. I wound up being about four months late, way over the page-limit, and I broke down and had some people look over it first. Lyrics from American Nightmare, "There's a Black Hole in the Shadow of the Pru" provided by liralen. I had a hard time finding specific dates for a few things, so my timeline might be a few days off here or there. I took a wee bit of poetic license with the Oakland game. 
> 
> Super-special thanks, first of all to plainsong_x for holding my hand and kicking my ass and catching a crapload of mistakes when I pasted crap at her while writing. Thanks also to callmecayce for helping with research liek whoa, tripthemighty for helping me develop the original idea, and technis for a quick and dirty read-through of the final draft. Yet more thanks to some_stars and vagabondsal who don't care a jot about baseball and put up with me blathering about this story on more than one occasion. All you folks rock. Apparently, it really does take a village.

Ben Broussard wakes up in a hotel bed, Detroit noises blistering at his ears, and when he turns to look for the laser red of his alarm in the middle of the night, he realizes he can't see. There should be streetlight shining in past the curtains, and the flashing green dot of a smoke alarm up in the far corner of the room, but there's nothing but an inky blue-black swimming in front of him.

He blinks four, five, six times, but still nothing, even when he pauses mid-blink to press fingers to his eyelids and prays for this to be unreal.

A deep breath against the rushing wave of traffic out his window, and something catches in his throat, choking cough spluttering past his lips, and this is no good, no good at all, because he didn't even drink tonight; there's a game tomorrow. He brings his hand down from over his eyes to his mouth, unsure if he's checking to make sure he's still breathing or what. His lips are cold, and something in him shakes.

His other hand presses to his chest, heart thudding through skin and tee-shirt against his fingertips in time, as Broussard is suddenly struck with the irrational fear (a ridiculous but persistent thought) that something might come bursting out of his heart.

Rolling onto his side, he opens his eyes again, shutting them closed tight immediately against the blaring, unexpectedly sharp red of the alarm clock. A beat, before he cracks open his left eyelid, and he has another four hours to sleep, so he does.

*

He hates the word "slump," which is mostly because he hears it a lot.

At the close of the 2004 season, word was that Broussard was going places; he wasn't a Hafner or a Martinez by any stretch of the imagination, but he put up solid numbers, even if he did so in streaks.

It's not looking like that so much now.

His first half wasn't as dismal as Blake's or Boone's, but his batting average is hovering around .250, even without taking into account the occasional week at a time he can step into the batter's box and forget how to hit, entire games where he strikes out in three pitches and grounds into double plays and generally wants to go crawl under a rock or maybe take his bat to something more stationary.

It's not like he's so defensively good that all can be forgiven. It's not like he's a useful utility guy or has a rocket strapped to his arm or does much of anything other than play solid first base. There are murmurs, gossips, rumors flicking about--will he get benched? will he even be in Cleveland again next year?--and, hell, he's already in a goddamn platoon situation anyway because he can't hit lefties for shit, but word travels, and word says it can always get worse. 

This kid Garko from Buffalo comes up, meets them in Detroit now that triple-A is done for the season. Garko's a righty, sped through the minors in two years, posting increasingly impressive batting stats. Broussard knows who he is because there's spring training and the futures game and the fact that the front office can't shut up about him. 

Thick black lines for brows hovering over his eyes and this stupid-ass goofy smile that makes him look a lot dumber than the piece of paper from Stanford would suggest. Kid moves like a catcher, has the thighs for it, the weirdly intense observance hovering behind calm exterior, but he practices at first base, and fields stiltedly, but not badly.

Garko hovers near him on the field, says, "Hey."

Broussard knows he's said something to the kid before, they have to have spoken before, because Garko's asking him something because Broussard's the big leaguer and therefore the one to ask important questions. 

Attitude around the clubhouse is, you get your head on straight or you can go home. Broussard thinks back to the night before, waking up blind in the middle of the night, and then when his alarm went off hours later shivering with goose pimples in the middle of roasting Great Lakes dog days. He knows his head's on crooked --if at all--but damned if he's ready to go home, so he pretends, slinging an arm around Garko, this walking pink slip-in-waiting, and tries not to think about the inky black knot he feels tightening around his spine.

*

Second night in Detroit, Broussard falls asleep to cars and the image in his mind of surfing over rushing waves of traffic.

He dreams of drowning in tar glossy water. Sticking to his fingers, breathing it in his mouth, nose, choking on its slick blue-black chill.

He wakes up gasping three hours after he fell asleep, lying rigidly on his back with the sharp prick of his raggedly bitten fingernails digging into his palms. Blinking back water that isn't there, he sits up against the strange heaviness at his chest, rolling onto his side, holding himself up on one elbow. Peers at his left hand, and in the dim light from outside, the blood rising to the surface of his palm looks black.

*

Pretty quick, Broussard learns the best way to deal with it is to ignore it when he's awake, even though the weird chill has him in his jacket in eighty-five degree weather. Blake catches him in the locker room and asks, "You okay?"

Broussard wants to say, no, he isn't okay, but what sort of pansy loses his shit because he has a couple weird dreams? So instead he says, "Yeah, I'm fine."

Blake wants to know if he's got a fever, shoves the back of his hand against Ben's forehead and frowns. "Jesus, Benny, you're like ice."

"Yeah," Broussard says with a shrug, and he and Blake are pretty close, good friends, because Blake gets him and because they've been together for about ever in baseball years, but Blake doesn't have to be road-mom or whatever the hell he's doing. 

"Just, you know, you're not getting sick?" Blake asks, because nobody needs to be getting sick right now, not when the team's still so close to contention.

Broussard just shrugs and says, "Just sleepin' a little weird, is all."

Blake looks like he's going to answer, but his eyes shift up quick to just past Broussard's left shoulder. 

"What?" Broussard asks.

"You didn't see that?" Blake's eyes keep flicking to their corners now, and his hand shudders in front of Broussard's forehead.

When Broussard shakes his head, Blake pulls his hand back, turns to pick up his glove and starts picking at it. 

"I just, y'know, thought I saw something. Just a trick of the light, I guess."

Broussard doesn't say anything.

*

Next day, flight back to Cleveland, and Broussard gets twitchy in the air. It's not natural for a huge metal thing to do that, even if it's just the twenty minutes it takes to get from Detroit to Cleveland, and there's some part of him that wants his guitar in the back of a bus again, except then he wouldn't be in the bigs, and that would just be depressing and he doesn't want to even start to think about that.

The team's high on the start of a winning streak, and Broussard winds up sitting down next to Garko, because hating him because he's cranky and having shitty dreams is one of those things he's going to regret come February, so he bites back the bitterness in his throat and sucks it up.

Broussard takes his digital camera out of his duffel, determined to get the hell over this before it eats him alive, and, because he's a collector, winds up taking a whole slew of pictures of the guys: Coco and Sizemore in an excitable argument about each other's mother, Belliard finding a way to sneak into half the shots; Blake and Boone talking about God knows what, because Blake likes Boone a lot more than Broussard does.

He turns from getting a shot of Vic and Peralta talking about something, Broussard doesn't know, because his Spanish is crap and theirs is rapid-fire, and nearly knocks his forehead into Garko's. 

"Hey," Broussard says, because he's feeling genial, "Let's add you to the collection." He throws an arm around Garko's shoulders and holds the camera at arm's length to get a shot he'll always think of in his mind as The Changing of the Guard, because, he'll readily admit, his sense of humor can be dark.

Garko reaches for the camera after the shot's taken, flips it around to look at the picture. The sharp brushstrokes of his eyebrows knit together, and he says, "I think something's wrong with your camera."

"What?"

Garko hands Broussard the camera, and the display is half Garko's stupid-ass lopsided grin, and half Broussard's face blotted out by smoky black blossoming out of his chest, two piercing red dots, eye-spaced apart, hovering just beneath where Broussard's eyes should be. There's jagged blue, disturbingly tooth-shaped near Broussard's chin, and he swallows, because he hadn't thought about black knots or waking up drowning in ink all day, but there it is.

"Yeah," he says shakily through sudden dryness in his throat. "I guess I'll have to get it fixed."

And Garko's a good kid who schooled the Indians farm-system, a kid who understands diplomacy, so he doesn't say anything, but just nods.

*

Broussard finally gets home, and it's pretty late, and Brenda's still up, dark circles beneath her eyes, because new mothers get the least sleep of all human beings, and God, God, it's not his fault, it's his job, but Ben's become one of those dads who's never around.

She's in the living room in the rocking chair, watching television turned down to barely audible, and holding the baby, rocking her gently. 

She asks how the road trip was, and for a moment, he wants to say, There's something you should know, and tell her everything about what happened in Detroit, about the nightmares and the black and the cold and that _picture_. Instead he just says that it was good once they left Minnesota, which she says she knows.

He leans over to press a kiss to her forehead, because he missed her, missed both of them, and Brenda makes a pleased "hm" sound and murmurs that he's _freezing_ , right before she yawns, and the baby starts shrieking.

Ben rears back, eyes wide, and Brenda says something about their little girl being colicky. Ben doesn't know that much about babies, but it doesn't sound like colic; it sounds like terror. He tests it, carefully reaching out as though to hold his daughter, and the shrieks rise in pitch. 

Stumbling over what to say, how to imagine this isn't something to do with what he saw in that picture, but Brenda has enough to worry about with the baby, the baby who won't stop crying, won't even let him touch her now, which was never a problem before, and he doesn't say anything.

"Ben?" she asks gently over the baby's cries.

"I don't know," he replies because he doesn't. He has no idea, only that his baby girl won't do anything but shriek when he comes near her.

Brenda says it's probably because he's not around very much, and that it will probably fix itself in the off-season, before telling him to go get some sleep. He knows he should argue, but the minute he leaves the living room, the crying stops.

The crib is in their bedroom because Brenda worries about things like sudden infant death syndrome, and wants to be there just in case anything happens in the night, so Ben stumbles into the guest room, takes off his shoes, and falls asleep in his clothes there, shuddering against the growing chill in his chest.

*

The home stand should be going well because they beat Detroit in the make-up game, and then the Twins come to town, and in the first game they pretty much school Johan Santana of all people. Should feel good but doesn't particularly because Broussard's hitting is getting worse. Oh-for-four, oh-for-nine, oh-for-something-teen, oh-for-ridiculousness, until he's scared he's going to completely lose it the next time he swings and misses. 

Wedge takes him aside and asks him if he's feeling all right, like he thinks maybe Broussard's hurt and not telling him, and Broussard can't say, Well actually, here's the thing, and he can't say that he thinks he might be going crazy because this ball club doesn't want to hear that shit. Instead, Broussard's waking hours narrow down to batting practice and video.

Broussard comes in early, goes down to the video room, says he's gotta see what he's doing wrong. 

He knows what he's doing wrong and that's swinging at pitches he's got no business swinging at, but Hafner and the batting coach don't roll their eyes and say that. Hafner just looks back at him and sees something in Broussard's face because he relinquishes the chair and hovers in the corner. Every little bit helps, Broussard supposes.

Hafner's a pretty okay guy, all things considered, especially right now when Broussard's worried he could snap at any moment, because Hafner's solid, present, real, and kind of studious about his game, focus sharper than expected. Broussard can't worry about things like freezing inky black in his throat around Hafner, because that's not baseball, and during the season, Hafner has two topics: baseball and food. It's reassuring.

Shelton runs the tape from two nights ago, and says, Benny, check out your stance, and leans over to pause the tape.

The tape had been a relief because in video Broussard looks just the way he always has, just like himself, though he has an unhappy tightness to his mouth, and Shelton’s right, his balance looks a little off. But there isn't a strange blackness blooming out of his chest like reverse lens flare. There isn't until he pauses the tape, going through Broussard's at-bat frame-by-frame, and Hafner says, "Wait, back up a couple frames." 

Hafner's an observant kind of guy, which isn't as reassuring now as it usually is. There's a strange shadow, undertones just off enough that it doesn't look quite like a trick of the light. It's a step behind Broussard in the frame, not holding a bat, but almost pantomiming that it is. Hafner says, "Shit," low and kind of awed. Two syllables, Shee it, when he sees it.

The hell is that? asks Shelton because he knows video, has watched miles of it this season alone, and this isn't something he's seen before.

"I don't know," Broussard answers, and it's like it's the only thing he ever says these days.

Hafner leans over, index finger to where the bat in the shadow's hand should be, tracing to the ball, and says, "I don't know if it'd go for a hit, but that'd make contact."

And the first time Broussard thinks of the weird blackness deep in his chest in these kind of terms, it's to acknowledge almost hysterically that even his _ghost_ can hit better than he can right now. He can't bat, and this thing inside him is going to eat him alive or drive him crazy if he isn't already.

The silence is leaden, Hafner's finger still an inch in front of the monitor, steady, steady, until it pulls back, slowly, deliberately, and Hafner says they should see how this rookie they're facing tonight pitches to lefties, and have they even faced this guy before?

Broussard doesn't thank him, but he wants to, because Hafner's attitude is really one he needs to have right about now.

*

Broussard's lying on the grass in shallow right field, presumably stretching, but basically trying to suck up enough light and warmth that he can remember what they're like when he inevitably wakes up shivering and blind in the middle of the night again. The sun through his eyelids is a bright burst of blood red, but the warmth is shallow, and only makes that strange coldness at the base of his spine feel ever-more present.

A weird mutter, and for a moment Broussard thinks he's hearing shit now, and the last thing he wants to do is call up his mom and ask if there's a history of that kind of thing in their family, but then someone clears his throat, and when Broussard cracks open an eye, it's just Garko, settling down on the grass beside him.

After a moment of relatively amiable silence, Garko says, "Wish we played more day games."

"Not when you're starting, you won't," Broussard answers. Garko doesn't say anything, and Broussard realizes he said when, not if. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, peering at Garko in the late afternoon sun, the kid's eyes a little wider than usual like he just suddenly got it, like he couldn't possibly have known. Sizemore fucking knew he was benefiting from like three guys being injured in April, and was apologetic but all-business about it. Garko acts like it hadn't occurred to him. 

"Um," the kid says, picking a little at the grass, and it's way more obnoxious than it is at all endearing, and it's not like he's going to apologize for putting up stats that don't suck or something.

Instead, Garko says something about them not playing him since he's been here, which Broussard knows, and doesn't quite get either except that he and Hernandez have more experience playing first than Garko does, and also that at least Wedge knows what to expect from them, unlike the kid.

Broussard just shrugs, says it's not like there's anything Garko can do, and wonders what the kid would do if Broussard punched him with his ice-block hands, if he split the kid's lip with his fist, and would the blood run slick oil black like what's in Broussard's chest? 

Instead he pushes up off the ground and goes to find Blake.

*

Driving without any particular aim other than "vaguely homeward," he winds up outside a church after the game and the post-game and all of that. Parks his car, steps out, up the stairs, and churches don't keep their doors locked after dark. Broussard half expects a midnight mass or something, but the church is small, empty, not even the requisite little old lady with a rosary in the front row. 

His right hand drifts to the holy water at the entrance into the church itself, and there's a part of him that honestly expects some dramatic moment like out of a horror film, but it's just water, and he crosses himself as he enters, even though there's no one else there. Traditions from childhood stuck in muscle memory, like when he still had to go to C.C.D. and sat through so many masses in the fifth grade that he could recite the entire thing -- barring the readings -- with the priest, mouth moving almost imperceptibly in comfortable ritual rhythms, which eventually got him in a lot of trouble for mocking the ceremony or something, he doesn't know, because catechism teachers were a bunch of weirdoes. 

Genuflection before sitting down in the third pew from the back--old habits die hard and no one sits in the front in church unless they're like eighty-five or something. He pauses a moment, waiting for something to happen, because the image from the camera, from the video, all leads to the expectation he'll look down and black rivulets of whatever-the-hell-it-is will be running from his shoulder all down his chest. He waits, hands folded, bent over, forearms resting on his thighs, looking up to the altar, to the crucifix behind it.

This is where in the movies the priest comes in and says something cryptic, where he gets the demon beaten out of him, or it comes out and someone dies, or anything happens but nothing.

He winds up on his knees praying for sleep for a few moments until he just starts praying for a base hit already.

*

So they basically knock Minnesota out of the wild card race, which is only fair considering how August the year before went, kind of like divine retribution, except baseball. It's an embarrassing twelve-to-four win on national television, which makes the commentators call the Indians a bunch of show-offs, and Sizemore and Crisp spend most of that night laughing about how it ain't bragging if it's true, and there's nothing wrong with being a show-off if you can win games. The media gets their collective pants charmed off them, which is what happens when you let Grady and Coco do anything together, because they're an unstoppable force or something.

Broussard finally gets a hit that game, so now he's one-for-ridiculous, which is better than oh-for the same, so he starts to think he's coming out of it, that these days aren't going to last too long, he's gotta come out of it sometime, even though Hafner says the way you tell it's over is you start getting walked a lot.

Oakland comes to town, and first night there shuts the Indians out, and it's the first time they've lost since they were in Minneapolis. It's surprisingly unsettling, and Broussard figures apparently the single the night before wasn't a sign of a break in the tide, which isn't surprising.

The second Oakland game starts off a lot like the first, and they're supposed to know how to lose, how to bounce back from losing so they don't slump, but Broussard's _been_ slumping, dragged down by this heavy blue-black chill that's only making everything worse. He hasn't made an error in some ridiculously high number of games, he lost track of the exact, but he's sure they'll tell him later. The point is that his body feels weirdly out of synch with itself and tonight, this first mistake of this caliber in God knows how long, the error sharply up on the scoreboard makes him want to go crawl under something. He can't hit, and he suddenly can't field either, Vic keeps sitting down next to him and twitching like he keeps seeing something out of the corner of his eye, and Broussard keeps waiting for whatever this is building to to happen, because he's sick of it getting worse and worse.

The night feels like it's falling apart. Strike zone is completely nonsensical and Wedge gets himself ejected screaming, Bullshit! at a called third strike somewhere around Sizemore's ankles.

Broussard makes another error, completely failing to get a routine grounder, and that's two, two in one game, and the only errors made by the team, and Wedge isn't even in the dugout in the middle of the inning to make a disappointed face at them, mouth a displeased downward curve, as they come back in.

He's going to explode, he just knows it. He's going to go up to bat, and swing and miss and probably get himself thrown out by starting a fight with their catcher or something, or get another strike-that-isn't called against him and wind up ejected because what the hell, is this guy _blind_? The point is that Broussard can't stand it any longer. It's all going wrong tonight, when they'd just knocked off the Twins, and now they should be shaking the A's, except it's not happening, and--

In the middle of all this, all the rushing inky waves in Broussard's mind, Garko (Jesus, Broussard can't stand him on nights like this) claps a hand on Broussard's shoulder as he's about to leave the dugout, and there's a weird moment of synchronicity, the exact opposite of what just happened on the field, the exact opposite of today in general. There's a clap on the back, and Broussard still hates Garko and he still wants the kid off the team, and he still tries to deal with it as best he can, but there's a clap on the back and all of that just rises up until Broussard has to stop and make sure he _hasn't_ lost his shit already, because everything about Garko personally offends him right now-- 

Which is when whatever is going on kicks it up a notch because it's like something in his body just came together with something that isn't in his body, and there's a weird niggling notion of something forgotten in his thoughts.

It's also when half the lights in Jacobs Field go out.

It doesn't mean anything, not really, because ballparks aren't perfect, because fuses blow and electricity gets fucked up, and things happen. It doesn't mean anything, but the game's delayed and Broussard feels too much in his body, and the lights going off feels a lot like waking up blind in Detroit.

Garko's hand is still hovering, warm and solid and oppressively over-present on Broussard's shoulder, and seriously, what the fuck, because the kid's like sub-rookie, Broussard thinks, and tells the kid to fucking get his hand off him.

*

The lights come back on about a half-hour later, probably less, but Broussard measures time in innings not minutes, in events not hours, so it's not like he's watching a clock or something. His hands feel strangely light around the bat and his heart is full-to-bursting but with what he can't even tell.

Baseball's not an emotional game. It's not like football or hockey or something where being really pissed off gives you some sort of moral advantage. Being level-headed, being baseball Zen, that's what's Wedge, Shapiro, everybody pushes around here, which is why it's weird that all he can think about is how much he's hating today, this past week of being a fuck-up when everyone else on his team has it together, about how goddamn Garko is there, just off-stage, ready to come in at any time, about how he feels so goddamn impotent trying to get his shit together when he can't, about how he can't sleep, about his ghost, his ghost--his vision's fogged dark, he swings in spite of himself, and it shocks the living hell out of him when he hits a home run.

Broussard plays the entire rest of the game in a haze, half in the world where he wakes up blind or choking on water that isn't there, blind and deaf to everything in the world that isn't baseball and the chilled thudding of his own heart. All he can feel is this rush of too much emotion, of too much hating anything but winning games, and his body moves without him even really thinking about it.

Next at-bat there's another home run, and they win the game with only the five runs he bats in. When he's tipping his hat to the crowd after the second hit, he doesn't hear cheers, but sibilant whispers just far enough away that he can't really understand. 

And later, in the locker room, coming out of the focus he was in, out of whatever the hell that _was_ , he pulls off his shirts, and thinks for a moment something really has burst out of his chest. It's odd, tar-like, blooming out of his chest just over his heart, and he presses his hand over it, feeling nothing but skin, and it fades away. 

Rabbit-jitter fast pulse of his heart beneath the skin, and Broussard stands there immobile for a moment wondering whether or not he's scared, and whether or not he should be.

*

For a moment, he thinks about driving to the church again, but drives past it, winds up in the empty parking lot outside a grocery store, right underneath the bare amber of a security light.

When Broussard first started writing songs, poems to music--even though he knows, really, he's better at the music than the words--he scratched them out on hotel notepads, and when it'd come time to collect all his words for the album in February, it was like going through somebody's cross-country road trip journal.

Recently, he got a little notebook, about the size of his hand, and it sits in the glove compartment of his car, most days. Grabs it, paper blotched inkstains all over in cramped writing, and finds a blank page. He says this is his hobby, the thing that helps him keep his head clear, and he writes, free-writes, just to see if he can jog anything that will sort it out, but it's just "me and my shadow me and my shadow me and my shadow" written over and over covering an entire page of the notebook.

It's not like he writes songs about himself anyway. They're all about other people. About friends from high school, teammates, family. Blake heard the one about him, from what Broussard thought would be Blake's point of view, and decided Broussard's music was a-okay. That's how these things go. But he doesn't write about himself, and he can't imagine what a song from a shadow's point of view would be like.

Is it a ghost? Who was it when it was alive? Was it alive? Now just question marks at the bottom of the page, and Broussard doesn't even know what he thinks anymore. He doesn't know how he feels about this and it's not easy like writing about a divorce or asking a girl out on a date or even somebody being a drug addict because that's stuff with precedent.

He winds up getting out of the car, leaning against it to keep scribbling, out in the dark-light of night under the light of the parking lot, just sketching, a stick figure on the back of his first page, when there's the sound of a car pulling up beside him.

Hey, you alright?, the policeman asks. 

Broussard doesn't roll his eyes, just says he's thinking.

The guy recognizes him, Good game tonight, and Broussard winds up signing an autograph for the guy's kid.

He's never really felt like a fraud doing that before, and when the guy's gone, Broussard puts the notebook back in the glove compartment and drives home.

*

"Benny." 

Blake comes up beside him on the way into the stadium the next day, still looking at him a little weirdly, eyes jerking over to the left every few seconds.

"Yeah?"

Blake's the guy he's close to on the team. The guy he should be able to talk to about all this. The guy who should know about the shadows and that his daughter screams when she sees him and, hell, Garko, and everything. But God, Broussard knows it will just make him sound like a nut job.

"You okay? You've been a little…" Blake trails off, everything implication.

Broussard shrugs. "Havin' a little trouble sleeping."

Blake's eyes narrow a little, brow furrowing, that deep shadow between his brows growing dark. "But everything else is alright?"

"I was kinda frustrated with the batting for a while," Broussard admits. "But that's over now, I think."

"Yeah," Blake answers, and they walk in silence for few moments before he says. "Look, Benny. You gotta stop takin' whatever it is out on Garko. Kid didn't do anything."

Broussard doesn't turn his head to look at Blake, just glances over out of the corner of his eye, and shadows cloud his vision. "Yeah. Yeah. I know," he says, even though he doesn't really mean it.

"No, seriously," Blake says. "CC said, You don't chill out, he and Vic are staging an intervention."

Broussard wants to ask how he dealt with Boone coming in. How Broussard could deal with Blake playing first, and Hafner playing first, and being platooned with Hernandez all this season, but he wants to hit Garko for it. Instead, he just says, "I _know_ , Casey."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

*

The bar's dark, hazy, probably not as nice of a place as some of the guys would like, but drinks are cheap, and as Sizemore and Garko are trying to see who can drink who under the table, that's a pretty vital feature. Out-drinking Sizemore isn't really achieving much. Hell, Broussard can out-drink Sizemore. Back in Broussard's day, people kept trying to out-drink Hafner.

Everybody pretty much learned their lesson from that in about a week and a half, and now nobody else is stupid enough to try. Or maybe it's that nobody's mean enough to not clue a kid in before he hurts himself.

Either way, Garko and Sizemore are knockin' 'em back and in between, Sizemore keeps running his mouth, and Broussard can't hear over the music, but he guesses it's typical Sizemore being competitive even when it's dumb. They can't get the kid to talk if they put a microphone in his face, can't get the kid to shut up when it's just them. Garko, for his part, moving smooth and lazy, like he's just as drunk as he is, and hasn't got a care in the world, that the national media isn't breathing down their necks, that he's not trying to make a break in the bigs, and it kind of _is_ a vacation in a way for the kid, which is _also_ unfair.

Blake and Boone came along, but are mostly sitting back, relaxing, watching the other games on the television in the corner, same table as Millwood, who's sitting with his back to the screen because spectating fucks him up or something. Broussard should be doing something other than hovering here, watching Peralta and Cabrera and Gutierrez talking about, as far as Broussard can tell, Sizemore and Garko being absolute morons, watching Hafner talking to a girl who is seriously about a third his size, watching everything moving, completely still in the rush of people around him. The people-noises are waves past his ears that don't coalesce into real words, the shapes in such high contrast it all blurs, bright and dark together, and Broussard maybe has had a little much himself.

They won the series against Oakland, which felt good. They have tomorrow off, which feels almost better. But Broussard feels like if he's not careful the rushing nonsense of the bar, the high contrast of neon and shade, will consume him and he'll fade, like that shadow that keeps surrounding him, like the murmurs just out of range of being understood in his ears. Other people have seen it, he reminds himself, it's not like it's just him who's going crazy. If it is craziness, it's some sort of mass hallucination or something, not just him.

But tonight is celebration. Tonight is getting totally retarded because he can afford to. Tonight is forgetting the shadow, the ghost, the hallucination, the whatever-the-fuck it is, and hanging out with Blake and Boone and whoever they rope into their conversation and getting the hell over it. Because Broussard's a Cleveland Indian, and the Cleveland Indians don't deal with head cases anymore.

*

A few drinks later, not so much that Broussard's stumbling, or non-functional, but enough that the difference between light and shadow is a blurred bright pink green on black at the edges of his vision, and he tilts a little on his feet, catches himself quickly as he pushes away from talking to Martinez, who gets increasingly unintelligible when soaked in alcohol. He steps, a little carefully, but he's an athlete and the dexterity of walking is the last thing he'll ever lose, and his eyes scan the bar, finally locating where the bathroom is in all the bright blurred high contrast. He waves vaguely at Martinez that he'll be back.

Goes, steps into the weirdly echoing room, music from the bar muted to his deafened ears and through the barrier of the door. The place is small enough he's the only one in here. Takes a piss, too much fucking alcohol in him.

Washes his hands, and checks himself in the mirror over the sink, can't look sloppy, even if he's stupid drunk, but what he sees is tendrils of black at the corners of the mirror, creeping in toward his face. Watches his own, mirror-Broussard's, eyes widen, black circling in the iris, hovering around the pupil, and steps back, squeezing his eyes shut against all of it, tripping on his own feet back into a solid, warm body.

"Hey!" an annoyed voice, and Broussard doesn't have to open his eyes. Garko. Which is at least not a stranger, someone to talk about Broussard losing his shit in some shitty bar because Sizemore's a cheap-ass, and it takes Hafner so much alcohol to get a buzz it's barely worth it at anywhere that costs much at all. Garko's hands on his shoulders pushing him up, and Broussard's gotta open his eyes. Blake would ask if he was okay, Hafner'd tell him he'd had enough, Garko just looks at him in the mirror, brows weirdly cartoonish over his eyes, mouth too wide on his face, left corner turned up, curled in. Broussard can't tell if he's laughing or not.

"Yeah, yeah," Broussard says, pushing himself away, feeling his mouth close. From terror to hatred in nothing flat.

Garko doesn't move, and Broussard glances back up at the mirror, as still and linear as it can be with all the tequila in his system, and he snaps, "What?"

"I'm really fucked up," Garko says, because one of the time-honored traditions of being drunk is telling everyone how drunk you are.

"Okay. I'm real proud of you." Broussard isn't in the mood for this shit. It's too much all at once. Too much input for one day.

Garko's mouth twists, shoulders hunching. "No, no. I just. I'm really fucked up, so I'm gonna ask you a question."

Broussard isn't even facing Garko, just looking at him in the mirror, the conversation reflected back and forth, something lost in translation. He makes his face a question, a prompt.

"I just wanna know how much you hate me."

And shit does Broussard not need this. The question came out weirdly stable, not like Garko's a crying drunk or something, but people are weird, and he starts to say "I don't h--" because that's what you're supposed to say, but Garko interrupts,

"I didn't ask _do_ you; I asked how _much_." Which isn't a crying drunk answer at all, because Garko's voice is all rough with whatever he's been drinking, and he doesn't sound upset, he sounds like he wants an answer, like those guys in his science classes in college who got really pissed off about labs, and Broussard doesn't know, just like he didn't know then.

"Hate's kind of strong," Broussard says. "Hate's for, like, Hitler." Which makes sense in his head.

Garko's hand's on his shoulder, suddenly, a spin, a push, back against the wall, and shit shit shit, Broussard doesn't need to deal with a fucking crazy rookie's angry drunk shit right now, but Garko's other hand's at his hip, pressing weirdly, and Garko looks at him all intense-like and says, "No. No. You do. How much?"

Broussard doesn't even know what they're talking about, because Garko's apparently fucking _insane_ , and also because he doesn't want to tell the kid that he hates him a fuck of a lot, because at least one of them's going to remember this conversation tomorrow. 

Garko's hand moving on his hip, staring him down, and if anyone walks in they're gonna see something this isn't, and Broussard finally grits out, "I just do." He waits for Garko to react, but he doesn't really, just enough that Broussard knows he heard him. "Not, like, a lot. Just a little." And he's going to have to get over it, which he can.

"Okay," Garko says, apparently mollified, because then he swoops in, fixing his mouth to just below Broussard's jaw, and the hand on Broussard's hip is moving in with intent to grope him or something, and,

"What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck," Broussard can't stop asking what the fuck, because really, what the fuck, Garko. That's nothing like Earth logic. 

He's between Garko and the wall, not held there, but suspended, and his chest feels full of emotion. When Broussard was young, before he learned guitar, emotion built up, too much all felt the same, happiness, fear, arousal, anger, panic, building in his chest, thudding behind his eyes, until he needed to run, needed to hit something, or his being was going to fly out his chest, too fast for him to catch it between his fingers.

Broussard doesn't know what he feels, just that he can't breathe through the thick panic in his chest. Pushes Garko back, and his neck feels scratched with five o'clock shadow.

Garko just looks at him like he's waiting for a punch, and Broussard wants to punch him, wants to punch him badly, feels the twitch in his fingers, left hand curling into a fist at his side. Wonders if Garko hates Broussard as much as Broussard hates him. Thinks about splitting his lip with his knuckles, see if the blood flows out black, curling like tendrils over his fingers, curving around the bone, shadow and blood up his arm, and it would feel so good--

Instead, whatever it is sticking in his chest seizes, and he pushes Garko harder, back away from the wall, back into the stall, and he doesn't know what he's doing. Shuts his brain off, feels like he's going to go running to get away from the pressure of panic rising in him. Kicks the door shut, hand behind him hitting the latch, pushing Garko against the side wall of the stall. Garko's hands on him, at his hip, sliding in, unzip, and what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck, is a mantra rattling in Broussard's head. 

Broussard squeezes his eyes shut when Garko's hand slides into his pants, into his boxers, his hand hot, rough, callused, too dry around his hardening cock--which, what the fuck. For a second he falters, right hand shaking, black swimming behind his eyelids. Then his left hand is working open Garko's goddamn button fly of its own accord, and shit, how long has the kid been hard?

The same off-kilter chill curled around his spine is caught in his chest with everything else, flashes of it at the edge of his vision each time he blinks his eyes open, so he stops doing that.

Broussard crushes his mouth to Garko's, thinking irrationally that maybe whatever is inside him will go be in Garko now and quit haunting _him_. Instead, Garko bites down at Broussard's tongue for a millisecond before wrenching his mouth away, turning his head to the side, gritting out, "Don't-- I don't do that."

It takes Broussard a moment to realize what the hell Garko means because he has a hard time gauging the relative gayness of sticking his tongue in someone's mouth when he already has his hand down the guy's pants.

Garko's slick in his hand, like he's been waiting for it since he came in the door, since before he came in the door, like he planned it, probably did; Broussard needs to stop thinking. Garko helps by fastening his mouth to the side of Broussard's neck, teeth scraping down, catching on a tendon that makes Broussard jump, and this is too much. Right hand on Garko's shoulder pushing him back hard against the flimsy wall of the stall, and Garko makes a low noise in his throat.

Garko's hand tightens around Broussard's dick, hard, rough, fast, keeps making a low "yeah" noise just under his breath every fourth twist of Broussard's wrist, until Broussard brings up his right hand from Garko's shoulder, clamps it tight over Garko's mouth. Garko's nostrils flare slightly, eyes wide, the slightest sound from behind Broussard's hand, and he presses harder with it, Garko's head pressing into the wall of the stall just before the kid's eyes screw up and he comes all over Broussard's left hand, and what the fuck, Garko. What the fucking fuck.

Winds up with Garko's knees hitting the tile, mouth pressing against Broussard's hip, lower, and Broussard has no goddamn doubt that he's going insane.

*

The high contrast, bright sound blooming in Broussard's ears shocks him as he leaves the bathroom; he feels heavy weight hanging over him, like old cartoons. He really wants to not be drunk right now, so he can _think_ , but he's also pretty sure if he were sober, he'd be busy wishing he were drunk, so he goes with that. Logic is a good thing.

He winds up finding Hafner, who somehow misplaced the tiny girl from earlier and is talking National League with some guys at the bar who are making, Oh my God, we're talking to Pronk, faces. They half-recognize him, but not really, recognize a face from the field, but not a face with a name, and Broussard isn't surprised. That's how it goes a lot of the time.

Broussard manages a smile to the guys, trying to not think about what just happened, about Garko's knees hitting the floor, his hand over Garko's mouth, to not think about how if he opens his mouth, he's afraid a stream of What the fucks will tumble out.

Guy asks him about the 'Stros, and Broussard really doesn't pay that much attention to teams he doesn't play, and he catches sight of himself in the mirror, dark, half there, half faded. He glances at Hafner and asks,

"Do you see me or do you see my shadow?"

Hafner blinks slow and steady, like he's thinking, because sometimes Hafner's real deliberate, before he says, "I think you've had enough," and makes an apologetic face at the guys.

No, that's not what I meant, Broussard means to say, because Hafner _saw_ the video, and Hafner should know, but instead, Hafner just slings his arm around Broussard and indicates to Blake that they're leaving.

"I'm fine, really," Broussard says, but his voice shakes when he says it because what the fuck, Garko, and Hafner really doesn't believe him.

And then there's a taxi, and the motion of the roads makes Broussard feel all spun around, and Hafner says that he is never, ever, ever doing this shit for Broussard again, because that girl was, for the record, really hot.

*

 

A crick in his neck, light streaming in a throbbing pain behind his eyes, and an over-powering odor of... eggs? Broussard brings a hand up to shade his eyes, rolling onto his side, and peers out from between his fingers. Looking from living room, television and game console on his right, into a kitchen, and Hafner's looming over the stove in sweat pants and a threadbare WWE tee-shirt, humming to himself as he pokes at his eggs. Broussard has never seen Hafner have a hangover since they've known each other, and is endlessly jealous right about now. He groans and closes his eyes again.

"Hey, you're up," comes Hafner's voice vaguely kitchen-ward. "You feelin' okay?"

"I got hit by a truck last night, didn't I?" God, sweet Jesus, just please turn off the lights, Broussard prays silently, even though the night before looms large in his mind and he's pretty sure he's just getting God's answering machine right about now.

"Learned your tequila lesson yet?" Hafner asks.

Broussard only groans again and rolls back to face the back of Hafner's couch in response.

A few moments later, Hafner, ever the polite host, asks, "You want eggs?" which mostly just makes Broussard think very seriously about throwing up on Hafner's couch.

"I am way too old to get that fucked up," Broussard mumbles.

There's the click of the range turning off and the pat of Hafner coming into the room and settling down on the ottoman. "So it seems," he answers, and his hand comes down on Broussard's shoulder, pulling him away from the back of the couch. "Water." Hafner says simply, and shoves a lukewarm glass into Broussard's hands as Broussard pushes himself up to half-sitting.

"Does Bren--" Broussard starts.

"Called her last night. Said you passed out at my place. Because you _did_."

Broussard tentatively takes a sip of water, mouth crackling dry before saying "Thanks."

"There's bread on top of the fridge if you want toast or something."

"Thanks."

So Hafner eats some of his eggs, which smell totally gross because everything smells totally gross right now because Broussard is fucking hung-over, and why the hell does Hafner get in-born alcohol tolerance and Broussard doesn't? And then, Broussard is trying very hard not to think about Garko and that fucking bathroom when Hafner says, mouth half-full, "You have nightmares a lot?"

Broussard always thought the thing about Hafner was that Hafner was a nice guy, for the most part, who talked about baseball and food, which meant he didn't talk about anything Broussard felt uncomfortable talking about except for that one fight over whether or not Mama Hafner's meatloaf was any good, but nobody likes it when you insult their mom. 

Point is now, now, now Hafner's talking to him about things like nightmares, and Broussard knows he saw the shadow in the video, and he likes Hafner, but he doesn't want to have this conversation with him. He doesn't want to have this conversation with anyone.

"Um." Broussard replies intelligently.

Hafner continues eating. "Just heard you mutterin' about somethin' in your sleep last night. You're not havin' problems are you?"

"No, no. I'm fine. Just." Broussard pauses. "It happens sometimes. When I drink."

Broussard's eyes have worked their way back open during the conversation, so he can see Hafner's eyes narrow at him a little, in thought. "Look. I'm saying if you're fucked up right now, we cannot afford that. Sure we're playing the Royals, but after that it's Chicago, and you need to be thinking about baseball and nothing but baseball by the time we get off that plane."

"Is this the intervention?" Broussard asks, because he thought that involved Sabathia.

Hafner laughs, and says that's not what an intervention is, and gets up to go put his plate in the sink. When he comes back out, Hafner stares at him for a second, eyes fixed somewhere below Broussard's chin.

"… wha?" Broussard manages to say, very intelligently. He can only imagine people are seeing his shadow again, and he doesn't want that, doesn't want his ghost to be floating around being seen by other people.

"You better cover that shit up before you go home," Hafner says simply, taps the side of his own neck helpfully, and he's done talking to Broussard.

Broussard's fingers drift up to touch the side of his neck, and he hisses, wincing, when he puts pressure at the bruise there. Should be relieved, but isn't. He doesn't want to look at it in the mirror, and all he can think is that he still thinks Garko needs a punch in the nose.

*

Broussard feels kind of ridiculous, more than a little dirty, guilty, when he gets home. Lets himself in the door and gets into the bathroom to shower before Brenda sees him more straight-on than out of the corner of her eye. It's not that these things don't happen in the sort of life he lives--it's the sort of thing everyone knows and doesn't talk about--but never at home, and never with a _guy_ for God's sake. Never with a _teammate_. That shit's just fucked up.

He shucks his clothes, gets under the spray, turns it up hot, scalding, and stands there, letting the water rain down on him. Waits to be cleansed.

He's still waiting moments later when the shower curtain pulls back and Brenda's head peeks into the shower. "Ben? You okay?" she asks, eyes soft, mouth curved downward.

"Yeah. Just--" he's about to say, 'hung-over,' but that just makes him feel more like a dick about this all. It's his first day off in weeks. He wasted his night off, the time he's supposed to spend with his _wife_ , getting trashed and screwing around. Fucking Garko. "Shit, baby. I'm sorry," is all he can say, and he's not even sure which of the many things he's done he's apologizing for.

She smiles, shakes her head a little, her fingers pulling the shower curtain further back. She's still in pajamas, one of his tee-shirts, a pair of shorts, but she steps into the shower anyway. "So, Amy said she'd watch Mia since it's your day off," Brenda says, hovering at the far end of the tub.

Ben doesn't even _know_ what to say to that.

Doesn't have to because Brenda's stepping forward, not quite laughing, but she has that gleam in her eye, like she does these things just to see what he'll do.

Her hands on his chest are gentle, sliding up to his neck, thumb swiping over his collarbone just enough to make him shiver. Ben's hands come to her waist, leaving damp palm-prints against the grey of her tee-shirt, and he leans in to kiss her.

Brenda's mouth is soft, warm--warmer than anything he's felt in a while--and he could lose himself in this.

She sighs against his mouth, her hand coming up to run fingers through his hair as he presses her back up against the tile wall of the shower. Her other hand flexes at his shoulder, and she just _gives_.

Ben doesn't actually feel like he's going to burst--just warm, that cozy sunning puppy feeling of _right_ ness. He knows he should tell her everything: the ghost, Garko--she had to have seen the mark on his neck when she came in, and she didn't _say_ anything--

But his hand slides up higher, over the damp cotton of her shirt, over her still too-sensitive breasts, and she gasps and shoves back; her hand comes down to catch his, dragging it back down to her hip. His fingers slide under the hem to feel skin. He could stay like this all _day_.

Instead, he lowers his mouth, kissing along her jaw, her neck. "I love you," he murmurs against her skin, and wants to keep saying it, over and over--I love you I love you I love you--until it stops sounding like words at all anymore.

*

So Broussard freaks out even more than he has been, and they play Kansas City, which is, as far as these things go, a pretty convenient time to be freaking out. 

He shows up on time and spends a lot of time watching video, but doesn't pause if he can help it, and as much time as possible is him hiding out at home, the clubhouse, where ever, with his acoustic, mostly just playing other people's stuff and humming under his breath.

The first day, Blake sings whatever Broussard's playing if he recognizes it, but stops after that when Broussard gets more obscure.

Third day, Boone asks if Broussard could angst in manly silence just for one day.

Broussard tells him that his angst is pretty damn manly already, thanks, but the guitar gets put away until they actually leave on the road trip.

*

Broussard says goodbye to Brenda and the baby, although the baby mostly cries a lot, and Broussard still feels weird around Brenda because he's not _right_ right now, because everything's all fucked up, but he pretends it isn't really, or that it's just the baseball, and she goes with it. He can only hope he fixes himself before the end of the season.

They leave for Chicago after shutting out Kansas City at home, and Garko comes in the later innings, gets his major league debut, comes off the field eyes wide, face flushed even though he didn't even get a hit. 

They leave for Chicago, and Hafner says, Thank God, because he's been waiting for this series since July, since he took a Mark Buerhle fastball to the face, demands tens, hundreds of hits off those fuckers as payback, and Broussard would laugh except one thing eats up Hafner and another eats up Broussard, apparently.

Everybody keeps talking about the Indians taking the AL Central away from the Sox, and the thought makes some of the guys a little giddy. Crisp says he isn't thinking about it but he checks the end of Chicago's games after theirs. Sizemore gets a little glint in his eyes as soon as they board the plane. Peralta, usually so stable, laid-back, can't stop grinning, a sharp pointed thing so predatory it's barely even a smile.

Wedge says they just have to think about winning games. Not revenge, not the AL Central. Just winning and it will all come. That's a lot easier said than done, and Broussard's hopes are all those things, but also his job, and his pride, and himself. His self. 

*

Chicago hotel, morning of the first game of the series, and Broussard gets showered, dressed, heads down to Blake's room because they're supposed to get breakfast. The hall shifts as he walks, the edges of the ceiling melting a little if he doesn't look at them straight on, and he hears murmurs to his right. For a moment he thinks it's voices, the ones he still can't decipher from the shadows, but then he makes out words,

"So I'm probably not coming up next year." Garko.

Vic called Broussard out on avoiding the kid just before they got into Chicago, which he has been, but it's not like there's much he can do. Even looking at the kid is weird and fucked up now. More than it was before.

The other voice, heavily accented and unfamiliar enough that he can only place it as one of theirs, but is probably Cabrera because he and Garko seem pretty tight. Pitchers and catchers and all that. The other voice says, "Yeah?" over the sound of the ice machine.

"Yeah," and Broussard misses words here, Garko not quite as good at enunciating as he'd probably like to believe. "-- don't feel comfortable with it. I can understand getting stuck in Buffalo 'cause of Vic, because he's _Victor Martinez_ , but getting stuck in triple-A playing _first_?"

Broussard didn't know that. Didn't even think about that. The kid's a kid, and the front office gets more and more conservative about playing kids the better the team gets. Not worth the risk after what happened with Phillips. Broussard's pretty sure he's not worth the risk, but Garko's _there_ , and plays first, and is a righty, and he can't see why the front office is telling him it's not in the plan.

"Most of the team already here plays first." Cabrera's a sensible kid.

"If I'm going to get stuck in a circling pattern in triple-A, the guy above me should at least be better than me. I mean, c'mon. Broussard?"

Broussard winces, and almost wants to shout, Not what you said the other night, kid. Because Garko's hyped, and he's good, but he's still in fucking _Triple A_. Hell, Broussard remembers when they took the kid in the third round his senior year, even though he hadn't gone at all the year before when he was first eligible, and everyone said Shapiro was a fucking moron for taking the kid at all, much less as a third round pick.

"You went through the system too fast," Cabrera says, and it takes Broussard a second to decipher through the weird pronunciation and off-speed rhythm.

"What?"

"A year and a half in Akron, Ryan. An ERA of twenty-three this spring-training. I get called up because Betancourt used drugs. It is all waiting." 

Cabrera actually sounds pissed off, but not on Broussard's behalf. Nothing about Broussard not actually sucking, and Broussard turns and raps hard on Blake's door, and he doesn't think he cares whether or not Garko sees him.

*

The game is a rush of ups and downs, of fighting for the lead, of heart-stopping craziness. Broussard's contribution is pretty much a sac fly, striking out left and right the rest of the game. Hafner said to get out of the headspace he's in, told him to get his head on straight because they can't afford to be fucked up right now, and Broussard knows it's true, but he can barely think about the mechanics of baseball when he has the shadow in him, around him, twitching at the corner of his eye. When he has whatever the fuck is going on with Garko. When he has the looming fact of his job slipping out of his grasp every time he strikes out.

It's funny; they try to act the same whether they win or lose a game, try to keep everything steady and even until it comes time to fix what's wrong, but it's fraying at the edges, and Broussard hasn't seen the team freak out about a win in a long time, but this is one of them.

None of that changes that later in his hotel room, lying in an unfamiliar bed--familiar enough in that it's a hotel bed, though--Broussard and the familiar lonely chill get friendly with one another, shadows drifting across his ceiling maybe from the light outside, maybe from this thing, maybe just all in his head.

He lies there staring at the ceiling in darkness for an excruciatingly long time before he gets up and goes into the bathroom, blinking as he turns on the light, and peering at the mirror. He expects to see the creeping shade he saw in the bar in Cleveland. He expects to see _something_. Anything but just himself blinking in the harsh light of the hotel bathroom blinking off white tile to blind him.

He stares at himself in the mirror for a moment, half expecting someone to come up behind him, even though he's alone in the room, and he still doesn't know if he's scared. He still doesn't know what he feels about any of this. About what the fuck happened with Garko. About what the hell is Garko's fucking problem anyway. About the fact that he's apparently going bat-shit insane. About that he has no idea what he feels except he's _feeling_ it all the time. He just doesn't know what the hell it _is_ except unsettling.

Pressing his palms flat against the mirror, leaning in, Broussard peers at his face. Does he look tired? Does he look crazy? Does he look like a guy who has never had a day in his life he hasn't been on a hot streak or in a slump? 

He pushes off from the mirror, leaving the light on and the door open, letting the rush of light stream into his dark room, and pads back toward his bed, grabbing the pad of paper and pen from the desk, and he can barely even see his writing. He's scrawling something even he's not sure of as he sits down on the edge of the bed, and he wants to know what it is. Who it is. All of it. Any of it. He just wants a goddamn _answer_.

*

Broussard wakes up, his room stark bright, alarm blaring, and pushes himself up onto his elbows, rolling onto his side, and he looks down and there's bright black down his arms, thick smeared across his chest, and he's made this up before, he remembers from the shower, but his fingers come up to press over the skin of his heart and come away sticky blue-black.

Pushing up onto his knees he looks around, waiting for the almost relieving sight of the shadows at his vision, the chill down his spine, any of it, because then the confrontation can start to happen. He can yell, Who _are_ you? He can try to find something out. He can _do_ something.

As he catches the fingers of his right hand against the pale peach sheets of the bed, streaking the blue black over them, he sees the silvery glint of broken plastic, and feels like a fucking moron, and gets up to go take a shower.

Not the shadow after all. The goddamn _pen_.

*

The second game is a devastating extra-inning loss. Rule in the clubhouse is to act the same either way; talk about what you did good and what you can do better, and no dwelling over losses. Everybody has their post-loss rituals. Guys who go out on the town, guys who don't, guys who sit around watching freaking Will Ferrell movies like the answer to life itself lies in them.

Broussard just goes back to the hotel, calls Brenda on his cel because they haven't talked nearly enough lately. He's been too fucked up for any of that. He thinks for a moment about telling her everything that's going on. She's his _wife_ , his _best friend_ , and he can tell her pretty much anything except for not how he's haunted by some weird shadow and also not how he groped around with one of the September call-ups while drunk in a bathroom, so really, he hasn't even tried to tell her any of the important stuff.

Mostly, they talk about the baby and if she's been doing alright since Broussard left town, and how everything's going at home, and if Broussard's doing all right in general, and he doesn't feel _better_ after they talk so much as that he feels less like he's losing it, more like all that other stuff, the stuff he can't tell her about, is all some kind of fucked-up dream he had a while ago but couldn't tell if it was real or not.

The call doesn't last that long, really, and Broussard winds up watching television and thinking about getting a good night's sleep, and kind of about how he maybe should have gone out with some of the guys, except he knows that wouldn't have made anything better.

He dozes off some time in the middle of a rerun of an old sit-com, not realizing he's fallen into dreamless sleep until he wakes up with the television murmuring about some sort of super-blender, and a pounding, persistent knocking at his hotel door. Blinking in the electric blue light of the television in the too-dark room, the knocking persists until Broussard decides he'd best answer it, kicking legs, still in street clothes, over, bare feet on the carpet, padding over to the door.

Broussard's expecting it to be some room service Crisp thought would be funny to fake an order for him, or for it to be Blake, fucked up about hooking up with a groupie, or any of the group that went out, just buzzed enough to think he wanted to play some videogame. Hell, he even expects to open the door and for it to be nobody, to be more of the weird shit that's circling around him these days, that's making his life fucked up and dreamlike and nightmarishly unreal. 

Opens the door to warm amber light streaming in from the hall, and it's none of that. Garko's bleary-eyed, hand on the wall beside the doorway, leaning in, and--

"Oh _fuck_ no," Broussard says, because the kid doesn't just get to wake him up and barge in and What the fuck, Garko?, is a mantra in his head again.

Garko's mouth is too wide, ears too big, for his face to pull off any kind of serious expression, for him ever to be deadpan, and says, "Yeah. Hi," and steps into the room, into Broussard's personal space as Broussard tries to block his entrance.

"Look, kid," Broussard says. "I'm _sleeping_. I'm _tired_. What the hell are you doing here anyway?" I hate you, you hate me, why do you keep doing this shit, I called my _wife_ tonight, what the hell is your damage, Broussard manages not to say any of it as Garko stumbles further forward, into Broussard's room, and Broussard stands his ground, getting hands on Garko's shoulders and trying to push him back, out of the blue-black electric and into the warm amber light of the hall. 

"I just--" Garko starts, but Broussard cuts him off--

 

"Are you going to tell me how fucked up you are and then come onto me again?" and it's kind of fucked up saying it, harsh against his ears, and Broussard feels chilled all up his spine.

But Garko laughs, not the way he laughs in the clubhouse, but harsh, like it's coming from somewhere that hurts, somewhere where comedy and tragedy are the same thing from different angles, and he falls against Broussard's hands and says, "Don't say that shit." Broussard wonders if it's because the door's hanging open or because Garko doesn't talk about it.

"What do you want?" Broussard asks after a pause, because he can't fuck the kid's shit up the way he'd like, because he's not like that. He's a nice guy. And also because he'd get his ass in trouble and there's no better way to wind up in Pittsburgh with Jody or whatever. Has to be cool, calm, let the frustration seething in him simmer just beneath the surface rather than boil over.

Garko's mouth opens and shuts a couple times. He doesn't want to be talking. His shoulders shift, and he finally says, "Fuck. You think I _know_?"

Broussard just grabs the kid by the front of his tee-shirt, hauls him forward, Garko trying to move his feet to follow, but stumbling, tripping toes over heels, as Broussard turns them so his own back is to the door, kicking it shut behind him. Twists his fingers in the thin grey of Garko's shirt and says, "So how much do you hate _me_?"

That same rusty, creaking, painful laugh, and Garko tries to move forward, and he's a little bigger than Broussard, little thicker, little stronger, but Broussard's got maybe half-an-inch on him, and also doesn't reek of alcohol or stumble over his own feet. Pushes the kid away, to the side, against the wall next to the door to the bathroom, and everything shudders in Broussard's mind, déjà vu, except it's not at all, because he knows what the memory _is_.

Garko's saying, "I don't ha--" and that's about the funniest thing ever, like it's all fucking circular, Broussard pushing Garko hard against the wall, holding him there, and Garko stops midsentence, turns his thought patterns or something, because he's saying, "Okay, okay, okay," head falling back against the wall.

"No," Broussard says. This isn't what he means to be doing. "I heard you talkin' to Cabrera yesterday," he finally says, trying to sound nonchalant about it, but failing, and he keeps waiting for Garko to tell him he's freezing, that his hands are like ice, but the kid never does.

Garko says, "yeah?" and then a moment later says, "Oh. _Oh_. I didn't--"

"Oh for fuck's sake. Like I care," Broussard cuts him off, but his fingers are tightening their hold on Garko's shoulders, knows he's got a few moments before he's digging his fingers into them. "Wedge hears you say shit like that, you get the 'There's no I in team' speech, and you give him the 'there is an M and an E' bullshit, Shapiro'll make sure your ass is back the hell in _Akron_ , no matter what the fuck your batting average is."

Garko nods, head hitting the plaster of the wall, like he just wants Broussard to stop talking business, to stop being sensible about fucking baseball for a second. "Yeah, yeah. That's… I get that."

"Okay. Okay. Just so we're clear." Broussard wants to say, I'm better'n you gave me credit for, anyway. He wants to say, You caught me in a slump, you ain't seen my good side yet. He wants to fucking defend himself to this kid, but he doesn't. He just lets his fingers dig into Garko's shoulders, and shit, he should be sleeping right now, but instead he's getting Garko, some sub-rookie, some minor leaguer, some September call-up, pushed up against a wall in his hotel room, Garko's mouth falling open as Broussard moves in, their bodies pressing together, and this wasn't what was supposed to happen.

Broussard pries one hand off Garko's shoulder and rests the forearm against the wall, holding himself up, his thigh pushing between Garko's and Garko says, "This isn't what I meant, but--"

"'Kay," Broussard answers, thinking to push back, but not, just forcibly stopping the slow grind against Garko's thigh, the movement of his. Because, right, right, this isn't a substitute for punching Garko in the face, this is worse, but then Garko says--

"No, no. Don't stop, just, you started it this time, okay?"

And it's pretty much like the first time, unzipped jeans, Garko's dick already achingly hard by the time Broussard gets his hand around, Garko's hand rough and close to too dry, except that almost feels _good_ at this point. It's almost exactly like the first time, except Broussard's not drunk, just tired and upset and confused, and Garko smells like different alcohol, and they're in a bedroom, but it's still against a wall, because fuck the bed, right?

The kid wants his job, the kid thinks he sucks, the kid keeps gasping, Yeah, low in his throat, like he doesn't usually get it as good as a mostly-clothed hand job standing up in some hotel room, and that's fucked up and also probably not true, and Broussard doesn't know what's up with it, except they're apparently doing it again, and also that Garko needs to, "Shut the hell up," Broussard murmurs low.

Garko's eyes open, flash at him, bright blue, but that's just the light of the television, and then shut back closed tight, and groans, weirdly inverse, and like he's fucking _pushing_ , and God, God. This is the kid they're going to replace him with? Maybe not tomorrow, but as soon as he's gone it will be this kid, right?

Broussard doesn't realize his arm's slipped down, pressed against Garko's chest now, resting his leaning weight there, doesn't realize his hand's slid under Garko's jaw, doesn't realize he's pressing down until Garko makes another noise, sharp intake of breath, cock jumping in Broussard's hand, head sliding back to hit the wall with a thud! louder than his previous moan had been.

And there it is.

He wonders if Garko would get hot if he hit him too, if he could kick him hard in the stomach, get all of it the fuck out of his system, and Garko'd just crawl over, wrap bloody mouth around his cock afterwards, and that's too much, too much to handle, 'cause he wants to more than he ever thought he could. Broussard's a nice guy, a sensitive guy, a guy who doesn't fuck up people's shit, a kind of dorky guy, a guy who's playing at strangling another guy, a guy who's getting very close to not really playing at, can hear the shallowness of Garko's breath. He's a guy who's getting the fuck off on this. He's a guy who's saying, "Not yet, not yet," and pulling his hand off Garko's cock, pressing his palm harder against Garko's throat.

Watches Garko's eyes open wide, kid's hand growing slack around Broussard's cock, mouth falling open, and the sound is rusted like Garko's laugh was earlier. Broussard's hand wraps around his own cock, working himself a little faster than he should, but shit, shit, shit. Tries to keep the presence of mind to lighten the pressure on Garko's throat every so often, enough for him to suck in a shaky half breath, eyes half-lidded, and this is not something Broussard's ever wanted before, not something he's ever thought of, nothing he'd ever do--except he's shivering cold, and shivering hard, and fucking into his tight grip and watching Garko make soundless, wheezing moans, and he doesn't feel like himself, feels more like himself, feels like everything's lined up for once, and he's just looking at things askew because that's the new way.

Comes all over Garko, over his fucking clothes, and that was dumb, dumb, so dumb, but he really can't give a shit right now, just catching his breath, his balance, and wrapping the hand that had been around him around Garko. Squeezes his other hand, his right hand, around Garko's throat, and it's weirdly fascinating that this gets the kid off just as much.

Pretty quick, Garko's coming, mouth moving soundlessly, and Broussard pulls his right hand back, forces his fingers to uncurl, and Garko's legs aren't even holding him up anymore, slides down the wall into a heap on the floor sucking in breath after breath. 

It's a mess, a fucking mess, and Broussard hates the kid, but in the way that hate's a totally fucked up thing to feel about anything. 

He turns, pulling off his clothes, and climbs into bed. Kid can find his own way out.

*

The world of dreams is as it has been for weeks now; it's watery, mucky, black like tar dragging him down. He's not far from shore, water thick, blue-black, sucking him down, blinking against the salt, something around his ankles, and he's drowning again, oil spill water wrapping him up, tugging him down to the floor, feet stuck in the black mud at the floor of the ocean. He can't move, he can't breathe, he can't _see_ \--

Broussard wakes up suddenly when his alarm goes off, pounding through his head, and he blinks away the light, sucking in air and waiting for the water of his dream to come rushing back. It takes him a moment of lying there, breathing deeply, carefully, before he can shake the sense that he'll blink again and be back underwater, lungs filling with thick navy water.

Low, annoyed murmuring from his right, and when Broussard leans over to shut off the alarm, sees movement on the floor--shit, kid passed out here?, he thinks.

Gets out of bed and shivers, unsure if it's that persistent chill beneath his skin, or his nudity in the morning. Pads over, bare feet on carpet, and crouches down next to Garko's form. "Hey, kid," and he doesn't want to be nice to him, but he's supposed to be. That's what you do.

"Nnnngh," Garko replies, intelligently.

"You awake?"

"Nnngh."

Broussard rolls his eyes. Garko's a fucking mess. There's a harsh purple-red around the front of his neck, eyes ringed and baggy and tired, clothes rumpled, messy as he'd expect for what they went through. "C'mon, kid. Get up," Broussard says, annoyed, poking at Garko's side with three fingers.

Garko reaches up, batting blindly at him, hand swatting lazily across Broussard's face, catching across his nose. "'m up."

"I don't know how much you had last night. You gonna be sick?" Broussard asks.

Garko cracks his eyes open and his mouth twists like, are you fucking kidding me?

Broussard snorts, pushes himself back up, half-notices Garko's eyes tracking up with him, and makes a face at the kid. "Be gone when I'm out of the shower, yeah?" Broussard says, and steps over Garko to get into the bathroom, the door shut tight behind him.

He doesn't look at the mirror, just climbs into the hot wet spray, and tries not to think about breathing or fog or crazy kids from Stanford. Thinks about hot pinprick spray soothing against his shoulders, and about getting clean from whatever the hell that was the night before.

The thing with Garko works a lot like the thing with the shadow, which is that he probably will deal with it best by pretending it's not happening. 

Broussard finally steps out of the shower when the mirror's so fogged he's not even tempted to look into it, and opening the door into the rest of the room makes cool air smack him hard from the fogged cloud hovering in the bathroom. 

Garko got gone, which is good, but the notepad from the hotel is tossed on his bed, scribbled pencil says, Next time do it harder.

Broussard almost chokes on his own tongue, and doesn't know what the fuck is wrong with Garko, doesn't know what his deal is, but the kid needs to fucking get over it or neither of them are gonna be starting next year.

*

Broussard tries to sleep on the plane to Kansas City. They shut out the White Sox which felt good, fucking great, just a total blowout. Even if Broussard wasn't the one hitting homeruns, that kind of thing always feels good.

Sizemore fell asleep on Sabathia in the clubhouse after the game and it took a lot of work to get him awake enough to stumble to the bus, to the plane, but he smiled before he crashed again, this time on Millwood who keeps trying to push the kid off his shoulder. Sizemore's a good kind of exhausted. The kind of exhausted that comes when you win ballgames.

Broussard doesn't feel good exhausted. He feels like that guy in that episode of the Twilight Zone, like he's going to open his eyes and see a Yeti dancing around on the wing of the aircraft or something, and he can never remember how that episode ends--was the guy crazy or was there really a Yeti? 

Fucking Garko sitting next to him, pale red-violet peeking out of the collar of his shirt, reading something, utterly oblivious. Broussard rests his forehead against the window, watching the sparse dots of light below twinkle over the ground, movement of clouds below like the movement of shadow black ink to his mind. He closes his eyes, and tries not to shake with hatred or fear or any of the things bubbling over in his chest.

"Hey, you ever get your camera fixed?" Garko asks, and Broussard turns his head a little, glancing over at the kid whose nose is still in his book, eyes not glancing up from the pages.

"It was just a trick of the light," Broussard answers, his voice coming out thick and heavy.

Garko hums acknowledgement, but says nothing else, and Broussard thinks about kicking him for reminding him of that shit.

Instead, he drifts off for the next half-hour, dreaming of being trapped in a box, fists pounding at the wood in front of him, cracks in the wood raining dirt down on him until he's choking on it, until it all crushes his chest and his eyes shoot open as the plane hits the ground, and he wonders if the legend about dying in your dreams is true. He wonders if he woke up just in time, and when he presses his hand to his chest, his pulse is hard, fast, heart slamming behind his ribcage.

Garko's giving him a look, but doesn't ask.

Broussard doesn't offer any words either.

*

Morning in Kansas City, and Broussard's walking around in his towel, brushing his teeth, wandering around his hotel room to morning radio personalities who think they're funnier than they are. He pads back into the bathroom to spit out the toothpaste foam, to rinse his mouth, and when he glances up at the mirror, shower-fog faded away, the face that looks back at him is foggy blue-black, skeletal, without eyes, the mouth pointed and grey-green.

Broussard whispers, Who are you?, pressing his right hand to the glass. 

His fingers slide into the figure, ice cold, colder than anything he's ever felt, hand seizing and caught in the smoky body of the figure in the mirror, and, _What_ are you? Just let me go. I don't want you here. Go away go away go away.

His vision blacks out, his throat seizes, and the whispers in his ears are audible now, snapping jaws and teeth clicking to the rushes of water and wind and all he can feel is hate and cold and how much he wants it to _stop_.

Shaking, hears his teeth chattering, and he can't feel his _arm_. His eyes finally pry open, a solid arm around him pulling him back away from something, against someone's chest, and Hafner's face is reflected in the mirror, cracks in the glass webbing over his chin, Martinez reflected at the edge, peering in the door.

"What the fuck is your _problem_ , Ben?" Hafner demands, hauling him back out of the bathroom, and there's red smeared across the center of the spider webbing cracks in the mirror. His hand hurts like a motherfucker, and Hafner's arm is too-tight around his chest.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Broussard blurts out. He has no idea what happened, but it's over. He's okay. "How the hell'd you get in here?"

Martinez holds up a keycard and, right, of course, Martinez takes care of everyone if he must. "We heard you yelling," Martinez says, and he looks confused, worried, mouth pulled down at the corners.

"I'm fine. I just, you know. Trick of the light in the mirror. It's nothing. Just a little spooked is all." Broussard doesn't need this, doesn't need this fucking intervention. Would like to be wearing some clothes if they're going to be having one.

"Because screaming 'Who are you?' at a mirror while punching it repeatedly with your eyes closed is what I would call _sane behavior_ ," Hafner says, and he's still not letting Broussard go, his hand on Broussard's chest patting him down, like he's making sure Broussard's okay. 

"I wasn't--" Broussard starts, but he looks down at his hand, bright red over the knuckles, slipping down his fingers and he doesn't remember doing that. Doesn't remember doing any of this. Feels his body go slack against Hafner's, and Hafner's hand pats him on the chest, lightens his grip around him.

Martinez still looks concerned. "Everything is alright?"

"Everything's not all _right_. That's not shit you do when you're all _right_. The hell is going on?" Hafner sounds pissed. Broussard can hear it in his voice, Jesus, we're winning, be less of a fucking whackjob, Ben.

Martinez makes a face at Hafner, mouth twisting, and says, "Ben, what's happening? I don't understand," and God, is Martinez trying to understand not what Broussard needs right now. Things Broussard needs right now include a pair of pants and for Hafner to let him go. These both seem unlikely.

"I told you. I saw something in the mirror. I guess I kind of freaked out. I don't _know_ ," and God, God, don't go to Wedge, don't go to Shapiro, don't go to anyone with what a fuck up I am. I don't know what it is. I don't know why I'm like this right now, Broussard pleads internally.

"Something like your face, or something like a giant spider, or something like robot pirates from outer space?" Hafner asks, relaxing his arm further, letting Broussard go, and stepping back out of the way, his arm still twitching like he's ready to wrestle Broussard again if he has to.

Broussard shakes his head, sits down at the foot of his bed, and pokes at his hand experimentally. Man, smooth move, Broussard. Hafner sits down next to him and pulls his left hand away from his right, leans in to inspect Broussard's hand for him, muttering something about glass.

When Broussard looks up from Hafner over to Martinez, he sees Martinez's eyes flick to the corner of the room, and Broussard asks, "What did you just see?"

Martinez blinks, looking back down, over to Broussard and Hafner at the bed, and says, "Smoke."

"You see it a lot around me?" Broussard asks. Martinez's eyes twitch again, the way they have since Detroit around Broussard. Martinez nods.

"Is this your way of telling us about a drug habit? 'Cause it's not funny," Hafner mutters as he peers at Broussard's hand.

"No. Look, you _saw_ the video, Trav."

"What?"

"We were looking at video back at the Jake. There was a shadow…" Broussard trails off, and oh God, oh God, he must sound like he's losing his mind. He must _be_ losing his mind.

But Hafner doesn't say anything, he's looking up at Martinez, and Martinez is looking at them, and Hafner says, "What did you see in the mirror?"

"I think I saw a ghost," Broussard says finally.

"This hotel's too new to have a _ghost_ ," Hafner replies.

Martinez is shaking his head. "Not a ghost of _here_. A ghost of _him_ ," he says, trying to explain.

"Yes. Yes. That's it exactly," Broussard answers.

"Whose ghost?" Hafner asks.

"I don't know. I don't know what's going on. I know other people _see_ it. There's a picture. On my camera…" Broussard swats away Hafner's hand and goes for his bag on the floor, pulls out his digital camera, and there it is, the picture of himself and Garko, the weird super-imposed smoky figure over where his face should be.

Hafner looks at it and blinks at him. "So, what? You're haunted. Someone died in you? I don't get it."

"God, God. Fucked if I know," Broussard says, and Hafner looks like he wants to call him a schizophrenic fuckup, but he doesn't. Martinez looks confused, uncertain, which is not a face Broussard ever wants to see.

"I can't fucking believe this," Hafner finally replies, and Broussard can't believe it either, so that kind of works.

Martinez just looks scared, like they're gonna have to exorcise him, but Broussard says he's fine. Because he is fine. He's been doing okay with his ghost. This is the first time he's really flipped out--he's not thinking about Garko, he's not talking about Garko. It's not a big deal, any of it. He's handling it.

Hafner gives him a look, and hauls him back into the bathroom to clean out his hand, survey the damage, and Martinez starts talking about settling this up with the hotel without making it look like Broussard lost his shit as much as he did.

And they know, they know about his shadow, about his ghost, about whatever the hell it is, and they're not saying anything about it now, just doing what he does, which is go on living with it, because hell if there's anything they can do about it. Martinez gives him a crucifix on a silver chain later, presses it into his palm, and shrugs, saying maybe it'll help.

Broussard figures he might as well try, pulling it around his neck, and the chill of the silver against his chest ever-present throughout the entire first game against the Royals.

*

Friday, before the second game, Vic's going through his daily routine of handshakes and good lucks because he's a superstitious little man. The comforting rhythm of the usual slap of hands really does get the mind focused, a little switch going on, saying now it's game time. Martinez leans in after the handshake, arm around Broussard, hand pressed to his shoulder blade.

"You messin' with the handshake, Vic?" Broussard asks, because Martinez has a system, and he sticks to it. Same handshake since Broussard came to Buffalo from Louisville, nothing added on, but now…

"I'm checking in," Martinez says. "You okay?"

"'m fine," Broussard answers. "This the new routine?"

Martinez nods, then looks at him a little closer. "No ghost today?"

And Broussard thinks to waking up gasping from another breathless nightmare, to the twitching shadows out of the corner of his eye, to how he didn't look in the mirror if he could help it, switching rooms, lying, had been a big enough pain. He shakes his head, "No ghost."

"Good," Martinez says, pulling his arm from around Broussard's shoulder, pressing his fingers for a second to the place over Broussard's chest where the cross Martinez gave him rests, says, "Good luck."

When Martinez turns from him, Broussard catches him crossing himself, but hell, it's not like Broussard can blame him.

*

On Saturday, Broussard wakes up to the ringing of his cel phone, and reaches over, eyes still closed, face pressed to the pillow to pick it up, flip it open, and bring the phone to his ear. "'Mmhello?" he mumbles into the pillow.

"Hey, babe. Happy birthday," comes Brenda's voice over the line, and Ben's stomach twists . "Did I wake you up?" 

Ben grumbles slightly, pushing himself up onto an elbow, rolling to his side to look at the clock. "Yeah, but my alarm was gonna go off in two minutes, anyway." As Ben reaches over to switch off his alarm clock before it blares when he's awake and least expecting it, something slides down his neck, settling coldly against his arm. 

"Are you feeling better?" Brenda asks as Ben pushes himself up to sit on his mattress, the thin silver chain of the necklace Vic gave him slipping down to the floor. He turns, looking behind him, and the fitted sheet's been pulled free of the corners of the bed, several of the links of the chain pulled free from each other, buried deep in the rough fabric of the mattress itself. 

He turns the rest of the way, his hand coming up to pull the sheet back, and the crucifix from the necklace is buried deep, on its side, into the far corner of the bed. He reaches his fingers out to touch the metal, and its icy cool to the touch. He jerks his hand back suddenly when Brenda's voice says, "Ben, baby? Are you all right?"

His voice is weak, shakier than he wants it to be when he answers, "Yeah. I've just been kind of stressed." It's lame, but true, he supposes, and closes fingers around the cross, pulling it out from where it's been planted in the mattress in his sleep. He asks Brenda about the baby and begins collecting the links of chain before tossing the remnants of the necklace into the small waste bin by his nightstand. 

So much for that idea.

*

Broussard isn't actually sure how he winds up outside Garko's door that night after the game. He's been half in the world, half dark-blind and floating all day. There are vague memories of his three doubles in the back of his mind, his lip curling to smirk in memory as he did when he stood at second earlier in the evening. 

He must have sleepwalked back to the hotel, eyes opening only once he rapped on the door, watching his hand pull back from it like his body isn't quite his anymore.

The green of the door pulls back to reveal Garko, hair still damp from a shower, corner of his mouth tugging up. "I thought you weren't doing this," Garko says, but it doesn't seems confused, it seems almost antagonistic to Broussard, who steps into the room, brushing past Garko.

Poker on the television, sound down low, the lights still on, golden in the room. Broussard should be on the phone with Brenda; he doesn't even know how he got here.

"We aren't," Broussard finally replies. After a beat, he clarifies, "Doing this."

Garko turns from the door, shutting it before walking over to settle on the bed, toes curling in the room's carpet for a moment before he says, "What? That's why you're here, then?" A question, but not a real one. He doesn't sound like he believes that. 

Broussard really doesn't either. He doesn't want to _say_ he doesn't know, but he doesn't know. Instead he just rolls his eyes and looks around for a chair to sit on.

God, he doesn't even like the kid, not as a human being, not as someone to fool around with, not as anything. It's uncomfortable being _around_ him, because he's going to replace Broussard, if not this year, then the next, or the one after. He settles down on the desk chair and glances over at the television and the wash of black, red-eyed, gaping maw covering the screen sends a chill through Broussard's stomach. He waits for whispers, for the black out, for anything.

"Hey. It's just poker, man. You got a thing against it?" Garko asks. When Broussard looks over at him he's on his back on the bed, pushed up on his elbows to look at the screen, moving like he doesn't have a bone in his body, pretending he cares when he's _the only person_ who hasn't seen the ghost. Who hasn't said anything about Broussard being cold, whose eyes haven't flickered to just below Broussard's chin while they were talking.

Broussard is on his feet, moving, standing by the bed, right hand tight on Garko's shoulder. The scabs from his run-in with the mirror pull against the skin of his hand as he tightens his grip, pushing down hard, and Garko's eyes screw up and he's _laughing_. It's that harsh, half-painful laugh again as Garko lets go, his shoulders falling back against the mattress. "So we're doing this," Garko says.

"Shut up." Broussard thinks of his hand on Garko's neck, over his mouth, making him _stop_ , making him quiet. _Making_ him. 

His mind flashes the note Garko left for him in Chicago.

 _Harder_.

Broussard pushes down harder on Garko's shoulder, resting his weight, getting leverage, pushing up to kneel over him on the bed. Garko's legs part easily, and Broussard rests one knee on either side of Garko's thigh as he hovers over him, fingers digging into the meat of Garko's shoulder. His other hand slides down, pushing up under the hem of Garko's shirt, palm flat against Garko's stomach.

Garko keeps laughing, like this is the funniest thing in the world, like he just doesn't _get_ it. Or maybe it is, and _Broussard's_ the one not getting it, but that's a hard thought to hold onto through the shifting shadows behind his eyes.

Broussard's fingers curl around the edge of Garko's tee-shirt, pulling it up, off. He unclenches his hand at Garko's shoulder, pulling it back to get the shirt off, over Garko's head, catching around his forearms before Broussard gets bored, gets angry, gets tired--it's that same old too much emotion thing in him again, but doubled, like it's a re-run, happening all over. Garko twists his arms above his head, the backs of his hands thudding against the headboard as he pulls himself free. Looks up at Broussard and that same daring laughter is half on his mouth still as he slides his hands down, pushing down the sweatpants and boxers, shifting beneath Broussard to get them off, and this--this says something, right?

It's back and forth between wanting to make Garko make those stupid needy, gasping out-of-control noises again and not knowing what he's doing or why he's doing it, but when Garko's hands come up to try to peel off Broussard's shirt, he catches them, digs fingers into Garko's wrists, hopes his bitten nails cut.

Garko's half-sitting up on the bed, twisting his wrists against Broussard's grip in front of him, naked. The lights are on, the television's still on the background. They're both sober. Hell, they're on a bed.

Broussard closes his eyes against that, because the surge inside him at that thought isn't anything but how fucking sick of Garko's insanity he is, which might be one of those pot versus kettle things, but the point is that he has no idea how he got here, how he got his hands digging into Garko's flesh, skating, scratching over his stomach, back of his hand brushing over Garko's cock, already half-hard in anticipation. Garko's tense, shaking a little with it, hands pushing up Broussard's shirt again, drifting down to try to rub him through his jeans, and Broussard has to pry his hands away. 

His eyes are still closed.

He opens them when he pushes Garko back against the mattress again. One hand loose around Garko's neck, the other loose around Garko's cock, and the kid's eyes are wide, looking past Broussard, _through_ him to God-knows-what, but he's not really laughing anymore. Garko shifts his hips, pushing up into Broussard's loose grip impatiently.

"Hold _still_ ," Broussard snaps, like the kid's going to listen. He doesn't know why it's irritating him, why _Garko_ is irritating him more than usual, which is a lot, tonight. Broussard doesn't trust himself to tighten his hand around Garko's neck right now.

Garko stills, thighs taut, shuddering against Broussard's. He _listened_ , and that's enough to make Broussard let his hand go slack around Garko's cock. The sound that comes out of Garko's mouth at that--a low, needy noise--is enough to make that black in the pit of Broussard's stomach tighten.

Pressure at his back, Garko's foot , leg bent around Broussard, heel at the small of Broussard's back, pressing down. Broussard tightens his grip on Garko's cock, and damn is the kid pushy, pushing him, just _pushing_.

Broussard presses his hand hard against Garko's chest, pushing himself back, away.

" _Jesus_ , Ben," Garko says, squeezing his eyes shut, his head falling back against the mattress. "You're not supposed to fucking _tease_."

"That's more your style," Broussard answers, settling back, pulling his hand away from Garko's dick.

Garko's laugh sounds less amused and more pained again. Broussard wonders if that's just the way it sounds when he's turned on. That's not a thought he's ever wanted to have, nor one he ever wants to have again.

"Don't tease. I _push_ ," Garko replies through his laughter. He makes a face after the words come out, like he's given away too much, but it's not like Broussard hadn't noticed already. 

Broussard presses his palm against Garko's knee, pushes enough that Garko hisses and pulls his leg back, taking the pressure off Broussard's back, settling back against the bed, and pushing himself back up on his forearms, giving Broussard an expectant look. 

Garko's hand slides down to loosely grip his own cock, starting a slow, lazy rhythm.

"Stop."

"Make me." Garko's mouth looks sour, his eyes shining with something Broussard can't quite place. 

Broussard's dick is getting uncomfortably hard; he needs to get his jeans off. Power games aren't his thing. He's not this kind of guy. He takes his shirt off, pulling the tee up and over his head in one swift movement, dropping it on the floor. 

His entire _brain_ feels shadowed, his teeth about to chatter with cold, and Garko still hasn't noticed. Maybe it _is_ all in his head, Broussard thinks as he moves one hand to unzip his jeans, sighing at the release of pressure. His other hand comes up to press palm flat against Garko's thigh, pushing back, out, hard.

Garko hisses, pushes back on the mattress until the pillows are scrunched up between his head and the headboard. His cock is still hard, flushed, and Broussard closes his eyes again because he can't quite believe he's doing this, that he's turned on by this, that he can want to fuck someone who chills his blood quite this way.

Broussard's shifting to pull his jeans and boxer-briefs off, letting them drop with a rattle to the floor, his eyes still closed, when he catches himself telling Garko to roll over, hands and knees. He doesn't have to look to gauge the reaction, a sharp intake of breath, a shudder practically tangible through the air, the creak of the bed with compliance. Broussard has no idea why he's doing this; it's like when he's on the field when his body moves by itself.

He doesn't _have_ to open his eyes; he can navigate the room with his eyes shut now. Moves to the rumpled duffel bag at the side of the room, finds the kid's lube without even looking. Knows Garko's still and shaking-taut on the bed. Broussard bets he's done this before. Talked big to some kid from Cal, got himself fucked hard in some bathroom on campus. Talked big to the guy he replaced all through the system, to some guy who played for Toledo or Columbus or Louisville or any other team--or maybe just gave his pitchers shit until they did this same thing. Garko probably has a whole _line_ of guys before Broussard who hate him and his mouth almost as much.

The bed creaks slightly when Broussard's gets his knees back on it, doesn't trust himself to open his eyes more than the crack he needs to reassure that part of him that's still sane that what he grabbed was actually lube. Garko's calf out of the corner of his eye is jumping, twitching. Broussard can hear the slow, muffled, slick sounds of Garko stroking himself, knowing he's going to get it good. Broussard doesn't tell him to stop this time.

Broussard settles in behind Garko, gets the plastic bottle open, slicking his fingers, when Garko says, "Hey, okay. So, you have to--" It takes Broussard that long to realize Garko's trying to _explain_.

"I know," Broussard cuts him off, hand coming up, slick finger pushing its way in.

Garko's breath shudders, his body shifting. "You've done this." His voice sounds distant, hitching mid-sentence, disbelieving. Broussard pushes faster than he knows he should, not taking his time before more lube and a second. Garko pretty much confirmed _he'd_ done this.

"You ever date a girl who was saving herself for marriage?" The question is the answer, and Broussard isn't really even thinking. He can't, his mouth moves without his permission, his body knows what it's doing without him having to look. He wonders if someone came into the room if they'd see the ghost overlaid over him, if they'd see dark misty swirls creeping out from his hands over Garko's body, or if he'd just look like himself.

Garko still has no idea, just laughs his rusty, almost hysterical laugh, gasping out something about technical virginity like it's the funniest thing he's heard in a week, and Broussard lets the open bottle of lube slip from his fingers, hit the bed, moving his hand up to the back of Garko's neck and pushing down, pushing his head down towards the pillows. Telling him to shut up shut up shut up as the fingers of his other hand move hard, fast, deep, a third pushing in, and he can feel it's a stretch.

Garko's laughter is muffled, his body shuddering with it and with the tension in his legs. He's still _pushing_ , and Broussard can't stand him again. Can't deal with any of this. Can only pull his fingers out, push Garko's head down further, slick up his cock and push his way inside. Harder than that faint thread of rationality says he should, but it's not like Garko's going to be playing any time soon if Broussard has his way.

It's tight, not quite slick enough, Garko's breathing already labored as he pushes himself back against Broussard. Kid's still fucking _hungry_ for it. 

Broussard fucks him hard, but slow, one hand keeping his head down, mouth ready to tell him to shut the fuck up at the first sign of speech. His other hand at Garko's hip, pulling him back as he pushes in.

"Jesus, Jesus, you're fucking _freezing_ ," Garko says into the pillow, still pushing himself back on Broussard's cock, and something in Broussard stills. Freezes. It's too much and it's not enough and he doesn't even know why he's doing this, just that he's still trying to tip Garko further forward, slamming into him.

Can't think; doesn't want to.

Blind and hard and needy and unsure if he wants to fuck or punch.

Can't decide if Garko should come or bleed.

Can't think about anything but how hard he needs to fuck Garko right this second, hips working hard, steady, Garko tight and breathless around him.

Broussard comes and the dam just fucking breaks--

The shadow is in his brain, his fingers, his mouth, he can't _breathe_ he can't think, he's fucking caught in that burst of emotion he never could _deal_ with.

He hears the sounds of Detroit, weeks ago, before all this. Feels trapped, blind, shaky, and all he can hear is his memory of Garko asking over and over again, "How much do you hate me?"

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the "shadow beings" or "shadow people" phenomenon, and the following line from the Wikipedia article on The Curse of Rocky Colavito:
> 
>  
> 
> _This suggests that a Curse of Rocky Colavito, if it existed, still stands. Colavito, like Bragan, has denied putting a curse on the team, but that doesn't mean that some unseen, supernatural force, did not do so._
> 
>  
> 
> Actual baseball-based research done via Baseball Reference, the Official Minor League Baseball site, and official MLB.com news archives.


End file.
